


Yield to Me

by goldenslumber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fight Sex, Mud, No Plot/Plotless, Power Play, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenslumber/pseuds/goldenslumber
Summary: A smutty fight in the mud. Just a little practice writing to get myself back into it. Enjoy.





	

She felt sticky and cold.

Jaime prowled around her, sword held in defense and she circled to the left, hoping to dive for his right when he was thoroughly distracted. He wasn't. Their senses were honed in on each other, oblivious to the towering forest at their backs. The dreary pine-scented howl of wind threw sopping hair into their faces, but they did nothing more than impatiently shake it back. Only their deep, shallow breaths registered above the patter of raindrops on their armor that seemed as loud as a roaring lion.

It did not take long for the circling to grow maddening. The flurried slosh of their booted feet on the muddy path grew old –  so, _so_ old – as it continued with no real results. Left, right, left, right, they circled, stepping forward once just for the other to step back.

Finally, losing patience, Jaime lunged. Brienne did not turn away, but caught his sword on the high and with a brutal, impatient force she thrust it down, twisting her blade around his, until his fingers could do not but drop it. In seconds, Jaime pulled the dirk from his belt, bulling her back with his shield.

It bought him enough time to wrap his hand around the sword hilt, but not enough to pull it from the mud. Brienne, too keen on seeing him unarmed, reeled toward him and missed him with her sword by a far amount... the action was uncalculated and overzealous. Her planting foot slid in the mud. It was not a gracious struggle. Her sword-less arm flailed, as her legs spread to a near split, and her body jerked forward, her shoulder _slamming_ into Jaime's. Both fell with a splatter into the muck.

Taking that action as a personal offense – as if, she indeed had planned the whole thing out – Jaime went right into action. Having her on the ground would be an advantage, even if the mud was slippery and thick. He slid a leg around hers, used it to pull himself onto his knees and with one hand he grabbed her sword hard – still armed – and meant to take it straight from her grasp. Brienne held tight, and recovering from her shock, landed a punch on the side of his face with her other hand. It wasn't _too_ hard, only enough for him to momentarily forget what he was doing.

However, that's when the fight got dirty. No more parrying, no more backing away and waiting out the other's move. Honor and grace forgotten, Jaime and Brienne wrestled in the mud. Neither remembered it was only supposed to be a practice sword-fight, that had gotten old and frustrating, and suddenly all either of them wanted was to _win_ the fight once and for all. Foully played kicks and punches were placed, and more than once Jaime attempted to push her face down into the mud, and earned himself a set of teeth in his palm.

Rolling, the two were covered in mud. Hair stuck to their cheeks, dirty water rolling off their skin and onto the other's. Everywhere she touched him, he felt feverishly warm, and even if some of his blows hurt, it only meant she could hit back without reservation.

That was, until Jaime suddenly yelped and slid off her into the mud and for the first time something akin to concern seized her.

“What!” she exclaimed. She sat up and peered down at him. Mud caked the left half of his face, and blood welled up between his lips – she could taste blood falling from her nose, though she felt no pain for it – and she knew he probably couldn't feel his pain either. Or he shouldn't. Her hand rested on his side. “What?”

His eyes had been closed, but they snapped open at her touch. No pain shined back at her. No, she saw only the twist of his smirk and the flash of his hand closing around hers. She cursed; he'd tricked her.

In a matter of three simple maneuvers, Jaime had her pinned. She bucked beneath him, nearly enough to unseat him, but he wrapped his hand around both her wrists and thrust her arms above her head. He straddled her, and after much fussing, settled easily against her lower abdomen. An abdomen that suddenly pulled as tight as a taunt bow – she felt his heat even through the mail and the soaking clothes.

“Finally,” Jaime muttered, as she went still beneath him. “Do you yield?”

She didn't speak, pursing her lips. Instead, she began to struggle again, whipping around this time. One of her legs managed to wind around his lower leg and lilt him to the left. His fingers slipped around her wrists and one of her hands broke free – reaching immediately for his armored shoulders and pushing him to the side. They landed facing each other; close enough their breaths tickled the others damp cheeks. He shuddered and his leg pressed unconsciously closer to hers still wrapped around it.

Still, neither gives in.

Her elbow finds his ribs and his hand grabs said elbow – as he winces – and pushes it up at an awkward and painful angle, above her head. She shimmies free, pulling him sharply down by tensing her thigh and tightening her calf around his knee. It helped her then, but being tied up there, doesn't in the end. By pushing her, she rolls slightly, and Jaime gets it so that while her torso is turned, her leg is turned the wrong way, still wrapped around his. The pain is enough to make her go completely still, but not agonizing. He could roll her a little more and it'd probably be enough to twist her knee out of place.

He doesn't.

“Do you yield!” he demanded, shouting above the din of the rain.

Her shoulders gave a weak struggle in reply.

He tipped her in a roll, slightly, and a squeak of discomfort came from her.

“Do you yield?”

“No!”

Even though the twist of her leg hurt her far worse than it could hurt him, a twinge began to spread through his own, and he didn't like the angle at which her body bent, to keep from touching his – aside the fact that despite it, his hips were flush against her backside. And it was a rather hot wave of a flush that spread through his lower body in response to her renewed wriggling, against him, _right_ against him. He placed his stump against her lower back – he needed distance – but pushing her more would only serve to seriously harm her, and despite the nasty bruising they'll both have tomorrow, he wanted both of them to walk, at least. Reluctantly, he let her go and rolled a few feet away from her.

Both struggled to their knees, in a near standing position. Brienne rubbed her leg absently with a hand and Jaime stared evenly back at her hard blue gaze. Like before, there was a measuring up. He could read the anger in the clench of her jaw, the annoyance, the intent that meant this wasn't over.

And all the while, his traitor body yearned for a lot more than battle lust. He became painfully aware of how her once loose pants clung to her, accentuating the swells of her body, the lean muscles of her backside, the sweet dip between her legs, where he knew he would find a bushel of wet hair.

He knew his pants must cling the same. He was hard to the point of pain, the slippery, sliding struggle between them made him want to – ah, gods, it was frustrating, and it burned, in both a way of tantalizing pleasure and the way a bruise hurts, when you press down on it.

He grappled at her and as fast as a striking adder, her arms met his in the air. Tension filled his frame and he knew by the burn of red in her cheeks, she'd noted the press of his crotch against one of her thighs. He expected her to jerk into it and cause him some serious pain, but as their arms had violent intent, her knee slid in the mud a little, pressing closer to him, in a slow back and forth motion that tore a moan from his throat. The sound was dry, raw, and _deep_ , and the taunt bow-string in her belly trembled.

A spike of pleasure shot through his groin and he found strength in it. He pushed forward, breaking their locked arms, and managed to shove her down in the mud. He tried to straddle her again, but Brienne twisted to the side, into him – too close to allow him any way on top – and her thigh against his crotch gave a faster, sharper circle of movement; he was caught between grimacing and sighing – the pressure felt nice, the rough, scratchy touch of his wet undergarments did not.

He arched away from her leg then and she only pressed closer, and closer, until, frustrated, he rolled on his back – and it took him a second to realize the mistake. Brienne straddled him, hands on his shoulders. “Do _you_ yield?” she said to him, dipping her face close, and the bend of her back allowed for a small gap to open between her body. Small enough for his hand to slip through.

His finger slid along the length of her and he stared at her face, transfixed by the tumble of emotions that crossed her eyes; shock, embarrassment, uncertainty, pleasure, and most heavily, a heady mix of lust, need, and frustration. Her breath caught and a firework of heat spread through her chest, and an involuntary jerk of her hips, ground her down against his hand. He smirked at her body's reaction.

Brienne seemed angry at her own body's wants. She snaked her hand down his forearm and tore his hand away from her – but Jaime was quick to buck his body up, and find something even more enjoyable to rub against her. He knew if he could just distract her enough, he could break away.

However, the slide of their wet, mud covered bodies together distracted him plenty enough, too. Brienne let go his hand and her body, instead of ripping away – as he thought she would – or shoving him down and against the ground, she met his buck right back, pressing herself against his chest.

He couldn't feel her breasts through two layers of mail and clothing, nor the faint armor both still wore, but he could image fairly well what they would feel like, how her nipples would drag against his wet skin, and he didn't even feel pain when Brienne's hands twisted into his hair and kept his head still.

It became annoying, though. Her grip on his head made it so he could scarcely move – other than his hands, that had settled contently on his hips – and he desperately wanted to raise his head and watch the crash of her body against his. She didn't let him. She kept moving against him, riding him essentially, and he kept enjoying the grinding, but felt frustrated, by the clothes, by her being on top, by the fact that even so, if he could just _look_ , he could use his imagination to strip away the barriers.

Trying to lift his head, Brienne pushed it back down with her fingers tangled in his hair, and her eyes flashed a little, in the dimness of the cloud covered sky. Jaime bucked up, against her slow, rhythm, and it became a sudden fight of their hips, rather than their entire bodies. She kept trying to slow it and he kept trying to gain the advantage. Eventually his hands groped at her shirt beneath the mail and he fumbled at her armor's buckles – and one of her hands let go his hair to try and pry his hand from her body.

With more leverage to see, Jaime surged upward, and Brienne, expecting it, moved out of the way. She stumbled a moment on her feet, then fell onto her backside, a splash of mud throwing itself over her. The loosened armor of her upper body slid out of place and, annoyed, she threw it off of herself.

Jaime could clearly see the shape of her breast pressed under the heavy weight of the mail now. An irrational urge told him he wanted nothing more than ring her nipples with his teeth and run his hand up her thighs – and so, since he felt as though she would fight him in this, he lunged forward to wrap her in his arms.

She was still sitting on her backside, legs spread before her, and his torso settled easily in the space between her legs, his stump arm wrapping around her waist, keeping her firmly in place, as his left hand slid under her mail and the clinging shirt. The touch his palm on her bare stomach made her jump.

Cupping one of her breasts, Jaime placed his knees around one of her legs in an effort to keep her trapped in this vulnerable position – she tried and failed to close her legs, and went completely still when Jaime's face nuzzled against her naval. Her hands were curled into his hair again.

“Do you yield?” Jaime asked, lowly. His face turned against her lower abdomen and he trailed his lips along the seam of her pants, where the legs met. She didn't answer. He twisted a nipple in response.

“No!” she gasped, but pressed closer to his touches.

He hummed under his breath, slipping his hand out from under her shirt. He slid a finger along the length of the pants’ waistband. And even with pine, clay, and the rest of the greenery vying for his nose’s attention, he could smell _her_ , and the run of his tongue along the slim strip of exposed skin between pants and mail only made him hungrier. Brienne wriggled against him halfheartedly.

“Do you yield?” he asked her again, as his finger slid inside of her. She made a small little sound, arching closer to him, but did not incline to answer his question. “Will you yield?” he repeated.

After a moment, of him exploring this new touch, twisting his finger around, curling it momentarily, Brienne broke away from the pleasure enough to remember to fight him. She barely managed to muster a punch or flail of her leg, when Jaime abruptly slid his finger out and against her nub, causing her to go tense and groan, and all the fight turned into wanting. His lips curled as she settled back against the mud and her body arched completely and reverently into his hand.

Awkwardly, as she wriggled her hips, Jaime managed to pull her pants down, and then returned his fingers to their earlier meandering, while pressing a kiss into the junction of her thigh and center.

The smell of her was dizzying then, and her willingness only seemed to make him want her more, and with his first tentative lick Brienne gave a gasp, her hand finding his hair, pressing him closer. He didn't like that – her trying to control it, when he very much wanted the control, so he gave the pink skin a nip and her body jerked away, and before she could be too put-off, he circled the nub and subdued her again. He grinned to himself as her hand in his hair lost tension and slid with the rainwater down his cheek, fingers running along his jaw. “Do you yield?” he mumbled into her skin, and she shuddered.

After a little more coaxing with his tongue and fingers, Brienne was arching off the ground and just before she reached that point, that rising, teetering release of pleasure – Jaime drew back. She made a sound of dismay and grabbed at his hair, trying to push him back, but Jaime dodged her hold.

“You have to say it,” he said. “You have to yield if you want it.” He drew his tongue above the bushel of blonde hair, on the pale, bare skin and it tasted like sweet rain and salt and metal, too.

Frustrated, Brienne, moving too fast for Jaime to react, and strong enough to break the hold of his stump arm wrapped around her waist, she rolled them, so that Jaime lay stunned on his back, and her center hovered just above his face. “And now?”

Jaime hand reached up her back and his lower body moved freely, trying to dislodge her, but he couldn't move anything above his chest. Brienne pressed herself closer to his mouth – and even though he did not like the demanding, tight look in her eyes, nor the situation, she did _taste_ –

Her hand found his crotch. She arched back, still demanding the attention of his teeth and tongue and lips, while running her fingers down the length of him and he groaned. A look flitted over her eyes.

Something like amusement, and an idea just occurring to her, and _revenge_.

Flipping over suddenly, Brienne's hands scrambled to pull his pants down and Jaime flicked his tongue just so – he thought it would win him a moment to flip them again, and was disappointed when all Brienne did was press closer into him. Well, not _that_ disappointed.

He kicked off his pants and Brienne ran a palm against him and Jaime's chest tightened in anticipation, waiting for the soft, wet, warm feel of her tongue. It never came. He felt only her breath, infuriatingly close, _painfully_ close. Drops of water fell off her face onto him, but otherwise, she only hovered, and he twisted and strained his hips upward in vain. He was rewarded a single finger tracing around the base when he returned his mouth's attention to where she wanted. Encouraged, he continued.

Her rewards were too few and too far between and Jaime's frustration turned to anger. It was not fun.

He was not having fun, being trapped. He slid his arm around her thigh next to his head and began wrestling her again. It wasn't an easy struggle, not a simple turn over, or switch of dominance. He winced many times – still wearing his little armor, and both still wearing shirts and mail, pant-less – and mud against their smooth skin made it harder than before to get a good grip. Wrapping a leg around another did little now, too slick to matter. Brienne at one point wrapped a hand around him and stroked, until he managed to wrap a hand under her jaw and jerked her up and around; face to face in a grapple of lips and teeth and tongue.

They broke away and both reached for each other. Jaime slipped his stump arm around her waist. Brienne's hands grabbed at his backside and pulled his hips into hers, and one thrust from him brought a cry from her and he moaned, burying his face into her neck, running his tongue over a scar there.

It was still a fight, he thought, as he moved inside of her. They rolled a few times, and her hands ran over his body, gripping hard enough to bruise in places, scratching in others, pushing and pulling, and his own hand continually tried to plant itself on the ground beside her head – when he was on top – and gain purchase for better leverage. Their movements were caught between angry thrusts and the tug and pull of pleasure. “I yield!” Brienne suddenly called, as that wave of pleasure finally came, and pulled her under. “I yield. Ah gods, I yield,” she said, still working frantically against Jaime, her eyes closed, head turned to the side. Her arms were slung around his shoulders, and Jaime had a sudden, startling realization of what they were doing hit him square in the face, like the slap of the cold, rainy wind. It was that, and the surge of her hips, and his name on her tongue that brought him over the edge.


End file.
